


Back to Where We've Never Been

by strangeallure



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, First Kiss, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Pre-Relationship, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-02-04 08:33:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18600880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangeallure/pseuds/strangeallure
Summary: Set between 1x7 "Magic to Make the Sanest Man Go Mad" and 1x8 "Si Vis Pacem, Para Bellum".It might just be worth it, drawing this out a little longer, waiting for them to be fully in sync, for a moment when it will happen naturally; not because they’re impatient or think it should.





	Back to Where We've Never Been

**Author's Note:**

> After the finale, I think we all deserve some Ashburn romance.
> 
>  _Thank you_ , Frangipani, who's been with this fic from its inception. 
> 
> I just checked and I first brought up the idea one year ago to this day, so that might be a sign of ... something.

Her morning run is Michael’s favorite time to think.

Her whole body moves in perfect rhythm, arms and legs working in counterpoint, her deep, even breathing a constant  _ in-and-out, in-and-out _ of oxygen and carbon dioxide. Her physical self a flawless machine running smoothly, freeing her mind, giving it space and time to wander.

Usually, she reviews the gym training session she’s just finished and then plans out her day, making a mental checklist of both work-related tasks and more or less private endeavors, like research she would like to pursue or answering her mother’s weekly missives.

Ever since the incident with Harry Mudd, however, other thoughts keep creeping in. They should be about time crystals and four-dimensional beings and the threat of Klingons. Or maybe they should be about Stamets, who’s had to live through Discovery disintegrating in a fiery blaze again and again, and about Mudd, who hated Lorca enough to condemn the whole ship and her crew to death, but instead, most of the time, Michael’s thoughts turn towards Ash Tyler.

She wonders why Stamets told her, told them both, about the dance and the kiss. It never happened in this timeline and is irrelevant now that they’ve managed to outwit and dispose of Mudd.

But if Michael’s completely honest, a part of her likes knowing. She prefers knowledge over ignorance, preparation over surprise. She also wasn’t as surprised as she thinks she should have been.

She had wanted to talk to Tyler about it, bring up the kiss that wasn’t, but then, at the last moment, she found that she couldn’t go through with it for reasons she didn’t quite understand. So she had mentioned them dancing instead. In some way, oddly enough, she had been sure that he knew what she had originally meant to say. And then he told her that he was a really good dancer, had maybe told her that he was really good at other things, too, and it had caught her off guard, had sparked a small flare of heat in her chest that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Like they were talking about one thing on the surface and about another, more intimate thing, underneath. Yet it didn’t feel duplicitous, it felt … exciting.

And then those words, “I’m just sad we missed our first kiss,” spoken right before the doors of the turbolift slid open and they had to go man their stations.

Michael turns those words over in her head again and again, timing their flow with the certain fall of her own footsteps, remaking the cadence of Tyler’s voice in her thoughts. She enjoys replaying the memory in her mind, more than she would admit. Not that she would admit to any of this, not even to Tilly, who is the only one who would dare ask.

Michael is almost sure Tyler was looking at her mouth before he said it. Maybe imagining what it would be like to kiss her.

He might still be imagining it, like she is. But he hasn’t tried to initiate anything, to make their kiss a reality in this new timeline. So they are living in this strange space of possibility.

And in the morning, when she’s alone with her thoughts, when she has no agenda to follow, no work to complete, she keeps coming back to those moments in the turbolift. It doesn’t stop there. She conjures other memories of him, too. Of his hands moving with confidence as they work together in the armory. Of the way he scratches at his beard when he tries to buy himself time to think. Of the way he sucks on his fingers after he’s done eating fries in the mess hall, which he seems to order several times a week.

His hands, it dawns on her, that’s what she thinks about the most. And isn’t that weird? Shouldn’t she be thinking about his mouth, his lips, how they would feel on hers?

Of course she thinks about that, too. What it would be like to kiss him, how it would happen. When and where and why. Who would initiate the kiss, how long would it last?

But what she always comes back to are his hands. They’re strong and soft at the same time. Long fingers and smooth skin. They’re also the only part of Ash Tyler she’s ever touched – in this timeline, at least.

She would like to touch them again. Maybe reach across the table when they’re in the mess hall together, or maybe let the back of her hand slide against his when they’re walking next to each other.

Her breathing picks up just thinking about it, although it’s such a small, innocent thing to imagine. At least it is for humans. For Vulcans, of course, it would be a lot more intimate. If he pressed the tips of two fingers against her nail beds, dragging them down to caress the back of her hand ...

She shouldn’t pursue thoughts like this, Michael admonishes herself, and consciously focuses to slow down her breathing.

It’s not long before her mind wanders again, back to Ash Tyler’s nimble fingers.

\--

Since Tyler was made chief of security, additional safety procedures have been implemented on Discovery. The most reviled of them are almost daily ship-wide drills, always impromptu, with no rhyme or reason to them. Afterwards, the mess hall is usually busy, lines forming in front of the replicators because Tyler insists on a rigorous physical component that leaves the crew exhausted, making everyone eager to get a drink and a snack before they go back to their stations – or their beds.

Michael is standing in line behind Tilly, who’s complaining loudly to Owosekun and Rhys about how the unplanned interruption set back one of her experiments in the spore lab.

Michael feels something prickle at the edge of her awareness, a presence behind her back. People invading her space usually make her tense up, put her on edge. Today, she must have subconsciously picked up on a smell or maybe a familiar breathing pattern because it doesn’t feel like an invasion, even before there’s a voice warm and low against her ear. “Yeah, I hear the chief of security is a real hard ass.”

A smile spreads across Michael’s face, unbidden but not unwelcome.

She rearranges her features into a more subtly amused expression and turns around to look at Tyler. “I’ve heard the same thing,” she says with her eyebrows raised sardonically.

He grins brightly, showing off both rows of teeth, and says in his regular, louder tone of voice: “Gotta keep everyone on their toes.”

That makes Tilly turn around and almost choke on air.

“Yeah,” she says, clearly flustered, “of course. I was just- I mean. I didn’t-” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and seems to decide there is no way for her to salvage that sentence, so instead she gives a purposeful nod as if to close the subject and starts anew: “Good morning, Lieutenant Tyler.”

Ash laughs, good-natured. “Good morning, Cadet Tilly.”

After he gets his smoothie, Tilly gestures for him to join them at their table. When he puts his hand in the space between himself and Michael, it feels like the beginning of something.

\--

Michael has been running for a few minutes, her footfalls rhythmic and even, her breathing timed just right, when she hears someone come up from behind, another set of footfalls, a little faster at first, like they’re trying to overtake her, but then slowing down so the person is just about level with her.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Burnham,” Tyler’s voice rings out, barest hint of strain, plenty of air left for the sound to be full and warm.

She cuts him a sidelong glance. “I go for a run here every morning.”

“Huh,” he breathes, and she purposefully doesn’t look at him to gauge his facial expression. “Me, too.” There’s surprise in his tone and what she identifies as a playful note when he asks, “Have you been avoiding me?”

There’s a strange tingling sensation down her back. She doesn’t want him to think she would avoid him, not even in jest.

“I wasn’t,” she says. “I usually get forty minutes of gym time in before my run, but because of the early meeting today, I skipped that part.”

“Makes sense.”  

They run in companionable silence for a while, until he asks, “What time do you normally start your run?”

“Forty minutes later,” she says pointedly but, she hopes, not without humor in her voice. She resists the urge to look at him to assess his reaction.

The laugh in his voice when he replies, “Obviously,” assures her that he read her right.

Michael’s alarm vibrates. It feels too soon, earlier than it usually does.

“I’m going to take a shower.” She lingers at a juncture of corridors that will lead her back to her quarters. “See you at the meeting.”

“Yes, see you.” He lifts his hand in a half-wave, and she turns on her heel to walk away.

“Hey Burnham.”

She looks back at him over her shoulder.

“Mind if I join you tomorrow?” He smiles at her, a little crooked.

“I wouldn’t,” she says and feels a small smile form in response.

\--

It’s late and the mess hall is quiet, only a few crewmembers scattered about when Michael enters. Her eyes sweep the room as they always do, but they don’t complete the sweep, drawn by a figure in the corner, having a drink and reading on a padd. Ash Tyler. Her lips curve involuntarily, and she makes herself turn away before he notices her.

She strides towards the bank of replicators and gets her drink. Tray in hand she ponders pretending not to notice him, to walk by his table and hope that he’ll kick out a chair like he did before, inviting her to sit down. Ignoring him when she’s so acutely aware of his presence would probably make her feel even more foolish than the small flutter in her chest does, so Michael directs her gaze right at him, only to realize that his eyes are on her already. Ash Tyler grins in invitation, and she tries to keep her answering expression neutral but friendly. When she’s close, he does kick out a chair.

“Long shift?” he asks as she sits down.

“Not really,” she replies. “You?”

“Me neither.” He shakes his head faintly and takes a sip of his drink. “I like being here at night. It’s quiet enough to read, but there’s always some people here, too.” His eyes dart away, focusing on something above her shoulder. “Makes me feel less lonely.”

She nods and, weirdly, she understands. On the Shenzhou, Michael was used to being alone in her quarters after the day’s work was done. She always enjoyed those hours to herself, when she didn’t feel the need to prove herself, didn’t feel under constant scrutiny. On Discovery, Michael has learned to appreciate the company of others to a point where she likes having a roommate, even if Tilly can be a little bit exhausting at times.

“Having people around can help getting out of your own head.” She stirs the powders from her tray into the glass in front of her in an alternating pattern she learned when she was ten years old.

“What is this, if you don’t mind me asking?” He gestures at her tea.

“It’s kohlan tea,“ she explains. “The preparation and ingestion is supposed to aid focus and calm your thoughts.”

The exact same explanation Sarek gave her all those years ago. She still remembers how she drank it for the first time, imagining a faintly pleased expression crossing his stoic features when she didn’t pull a face at the taste like most non-Vulcans did.

Michael whips the tea with the four-pronged whisk until the surface is coated by an even layer of foam and stacks the tiny powder bowls, now empty, on top of each other.

“Sounds like the whole ship could use some of that tea.”

“They might.” Michael finds herself grinning as she takes the first sip. “But they might not appreciate the taste.”

“Oh?” He leans in just a little.

“It’s quite bitter.” On impulse, she adds, “but it reminds me of home.”

He nods. “That’s important.” Although he's significantly taller than her, he somehow manages to look up at her through his lashes. “Can I try it?”

“If you’d like.” She hands over the tea.

His palm wraps around the glass, his fingertips grazing hers, and he twists his wrist so that his lips touch the rim exactly in the spot where her mouth was. Michael’s heartbeat speeds up for no reason.

He takes a careful sip, swishing it around in his mouth before he swallows, drawing her attention to the way his throat works.

“Cooler than I expected,” he says. “And there’s bitterness, yes, but there’s also a kind of background sweetness.”

Michael smiles with a strange sense of … pride, maybe. Most non-Vulcans trying kohlan tea swallow too much of it, and then just try and force it down quick.

“That’s the plum berries. Their skin is bitter but their seed is sweet. Once the sun has dried them, they’re ground into this violet powder.” She points at one of the empty bowls.

“After you swallow, there’s this aftertaste. Something sour and,” he moves his jaw, “salty, too. Right?”

She nods. “Vorothean Seaweed.”

“All that’s missing is umami.”

A small laugh escapes her. “Vulcans don’t have taste receptors for that.”

He makes an amused sound. “Interesting. I didn’t know that.” Pointing his index finger at her, he adds, “Maybe that’s the real reason they’re vegetarians.”

“An interesting hypothesis,” she concedes.

Tyler looks at the glass still in his hand. “So this is all about balance between tastes.”

“Indeed.” She's curiously satisfied that he worked out the significance.

He sets the tea back down on the table. “Is every Vulcan foodstuff a metaphor?”

His question startles another laugh out of Michael. “It can seem that way.”

“Thanks for letting me have a taste of your tea,” he says and pushes the drink back in front of her.

Before Michael lifts up the glass, she rotates it so that the side showing faint prints from both their lips is right in front of her. She takes a sip and looks at him, pleased with the way his mouth curls in a private smile.

\--

It’s only been a few days, but somehow Ash Tyler already feels like an integral part of Michael’s morning routine.

She catches herself thinking of him as she goes through her poses and movements at the gym, as she lifts her dumbbells and barbells. Her wandering mind makes it harder to keep track of her repetitions but she doesn’t mind. The thoughts are enjoyable, just like the mildly fizzy sensation just beneath her skin that intensifies as she changes into her running clothes, mounting just before she turns the corner where they meet every morning.

Ash is a little early like always, leaning against the wall in a way that pulls the silver DISCO lettering on his dark blue t-shirt tight across his chest.

As soon as she joins him, he pushes himself off the wall, and they fall into a comfortable rhythm.

“Morning, Burnham,” he says in the easy cadence she’s come to expect.

They don’t talk continuously, but they always seem to find something to remark upon: an interesting constellation outside the hull, the breakneck speed at which their Deruvian colleagues overtake them, or an implausible factoid Tyler mentions in an effort to make her laugh. More often than not, conversation flows from there.

The ability to talk comfortably is an indicator of good long-distance pacing, but on some level Michael knows that’s not the reason why she engages in meaningless chit-chat with him, something she used to have little patience for until she came aboard Discovery.

A few minutes before their time is up, Tyler changes the subject, and Michael detects a shift in his tone of voice.

“You said you spend some time at the gym before this, right?” It sounds casual enough, but there might be a hint of uncertainty bleeding through.

She nods. “Forty minutes every day.”

He looks at her, eyebrows raised, head tilting slightly, encouraging her to elaborate. She’s gotten quite good at looking at him out of the corner of her eye, judging his facial expression. “Kickboxing or capoeira most days. Making sure my Suus Mahna doesn’t get rusty. A little bit of weight training, too.”

“That’s quite a spread,” he says, and it sounds genuinely impressed, not annoyed because he interprets her words as trying to show off, a reaction she has met with before. “I’m a tai chi person myself, but I’d love if you could show me a few moves sometimes.”

Tai chi. It makes instant sense. Of course he’d be drawn to a type of martial arts that is focused on defense and grace. It seems like an excellent fit for a chief security officer, someone who should be circumspect and prudent, should focus on minimizing risks through strategy rather than relying on sheer brawn. Michael likes that it has a meditation component, just like Suus Mahna, and wonders if that’s something that helps him deal with … everything. Like it does her.

Imaging him in the gym with her, showing him a few poses, demonstrating her strength and command over her own body, Michael can’t help thinking about her sparring jumpsuit. How tight it is, how it hugs her curves in ways her running shirt doesn’t. How the silver paneling in the front emphasizes her chest. A frisson of excitement shoots through her when she think about him looking at her, his dark eyes sweeping along the lines of her body; appraising, approving.  She thinks, too, about the zip fastening in front, how easy it is to slide down, how one quick tug of his fingers could expose so much more of her skin to his gaze.

“Sure,” she says, “any time.”

\--

When she enters the gym the next day, Tyler’s already there, arms crossed, leaning against the wall next to the door.

Michael didn’t take into account that he might be wearing their standard-issue exercise gear, too. Forcing her eyes away from the soft swell of his biceps, the way the muscles shift beneath his skin, she pastes on a smile and hopes it comes across as pleasant.

“Good morning.” Her mouth feels too dry around the words.

“Good morning, Michael,” he says. Michael, not Burnham. Interesting. She thinks she likes it. He shrugs, nonchalant, as he pushes himself off the wall. “I thought  _ no time like the present_. But if this is a bad day …” He nods towards the door.

He must have detected something in her, that she was taken aback or that her smile wasn’t entirely real. The thought tugs at something inside her, but in a good way. It’s nice to feel like he knows her well enough to notice these small variances.

“No.” The word comes out too fast. “Not at all.” Her eyes find his without really meaning to. “I was just surprised, that’s all.”

His expression relaxes and he claps his hands together. “Excellent.” His gaze surveys the space and its limited equipment. “Where do you want me?”

\--

Ash integrates into this part of her morning, too, almost as seamlessly as he did with her morning run.

They start out separately with strength training, each in their own corner because Michael prefers free weights while Ash likes to put his bodyweight to work, but after that’s done, they meet on the mat for martial arts.

He’s a fast learner, taking to the restraint and exact execution of Suus Mahna in a way that is rare for non-Vulcans, even those with extensive martial arts training. His level of core strength is impressive and his muscles are lean and powerful, able to hold and precisely modulate the poses she demonstrates with little need for adjustment. Michael reminds herself that he’s in charge of security, making combat training part of his professional skill set, but she’s impressed nonetheless.

In the rare instances when Ash doesn’t get an angle quite right or moves a little too quickly between poses, Michael finds herself correcting him with a touch instead of verbal commands. She doubts someone like Landry would have been so willing to defer to her guidance, have shown the same level of care and patience, but Ash’s body yields easily under her hands, muscles shifting deliciously beneath her fingers, so Michael won’t dwell on the fact that she doesn’t do it for the benefit of instruction alone.

\--

The next time Michael’s on her way to the mess hall for a late-night beverage, she feels like there’s static building up at the base of her spine as she walks.

Last time she went this late, she met Ash. In retrospect, his admission that he preferred to spend his evenings there over his empty quarters seems weightier than mere fact, like an invitation.

She finds herself hoping he’ll be there so she can finally take him up on it.

As it turns out, she’s in luck.

By the time she scans the room, tea tray in hand, Ash’s eyes have already found her, and he’s smiling, jutting his chin out towards her, almost like he was expecting her.

“I was hoping you’d be back,” he says with disarming sincerity.

She shoots him a questioning look as she sits down, aware of the smile warming her face.

“Your tea,” he gestures at her tray, “it reminded me of something from my own childhood.”

“Yes?” she asks as she goes about preparing her drink.

“When I was a kid, we lived next to this couple, Deela and Echo. They had a whole menagerie of animals and they always let me visit and pet them.” The look in his eyes is far away and happy, like he finds nothing but pleasure in the memory. “And sometimes, they’d even feed me dessert.” His smile deepens.

She wants to say something, but the only thing that comes to her is a generic question. “How old were you?”

He doesn’t seem to mind. “Seven, maybe eight or nine.” His gaze shifts, looking upwards and to the side, like he’s trying to remember something. “We moved to a different place before I finished elementary school, so it can’t have been later than that.”

Michael whips the tea until it’s frothy and takes her first sip, one hand wrapped around her glass, the other resting on the table.

“And I can’t believe I forgot this,” he smiles, lopsided, and gives her hand an impulsive squeeze, “but my favorite thing they made actually had all four flavor components, too.”

As if on its own accord, her hand beneath his turns over and squeezes him back. “Oh?”

He leans into her space like he’s telling a secret. “A lemon-zest pancake with a tart rhubarb filling and salted caramel ice cream.”

He looks at her expectantly, eyes twinkling.

“No umami?” she asks, surprising herself by teasing him.

He laughs out loud. “Sadly, no.”

“So anyway,” he pats her hand like it’s the most natural thing. “I asked Linus if he could add something like that to the replicator’s repertoire.”

Michael feels a skeptical look cross her face. “That seems unlikely.”

Everybody knows engineering hates special requests. If they grant one, their reasoning goes, every single one of the four hundred crewmen aboard will come up with their own. Besides, replicator pattern slots are limited.

“I told him I wanted to impress someone special.” The words should sound too smooth, too flirty, but there’s an earnestness to them that sends tendrils of warmth through Michael’s bloodstream.

Still she manages to raise a skeptical eyebrow.

“I also promised to schedule the next two drills around his newest experiment,” Ash admits with a shrug, and it makes Michael laugh.

“So, would you like to try it?” He nods towards the replicators.

She nods. “I would like that very much.”

\--

Michael doesn’t visit the mess every night after that, but when she does, she no longer pretends it’s not to spend time with Ash. She comes to cherish those times at night in a way that feels different from their mornings.

Sometimes, she brings her own padd and they read in amicable silence, but more often than not, they wind up talking about matters important and inconsequential alike, leaning in close, their voices low and private.

There’s more and more physical contact involved, too. At first it’s mostly stray touches, Michael’s foot bumping into his under the table and neither of them moving away, or Ash’s hand brushing against hers as he steals a blueberry from the bowl next to her. Soon, though, their touching becomes more deliberate, turns into lingering caresses and casual hand holding.

One night when they’re both reading quietly, his palm a welcome warm weight across her wrist, Michael plucks up the courage to ask him outright: “Why haven’t you tried to kiss me yet?”

Ash doesn’t look up from his padd. “Maybe I’m waiting for you to make a move.” His voice is soft, but she can’t fully parse its tone.

“Are you?” she presses on.

He puts the padd aside and purses his lips. “I don’t know.” His next breath is deep and drawn-out, his fingers on her arm flexing with it, and Michael gets the feeling he’s buying himself some time. “I’m usually not big on workplace romance.” He chuckles, but it feels forced. “Everything on this ship, on any ship really, it’s so … utilitarian.”

Michael doesn’t know what to make of that, so she stays quiet, hoping he’ll fill the silence with an explanation she can understand. She knows their attraction is mutual, knows it deep inside herself, with a certainty that feels rare, profound. That’s why his reluctance confuses her. In a time where everything feels unpredictable, contingent, this is the one thing that should be easy.

“The thing is,” he rubs the side of his face, “I’ve been in space for ages now. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been nothing but a Starfleet lieutenant for too long.” His head shakes, like he’s trying to chase away a memory. “I just-” He clicks his tongue. “Even just a day or two of shore leave would be nice. Get my feet on solid ground again. Get my head back on straight.”

He laughs. It doesn’t sound happy, but it feels less forced. “I’m not explaining this right.” His hand rubs along her skin, reassuring her, even as his expression fills with self-deprecation. “Probably because I don’t really know myself.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” she says, resolving to mean it even as she pulls her arm away. His hand closes around hers, his palm exerting some pressure, not enough to force her hand to stay, but enough to let her know he’d like to keep holding it. Her fingers relax beneath his, and he finds her gaze, leaning across the table.

“I’ve always liked kissing out in the open, in nature,” he says, apropos of nothing. “I love space and I love flying, but being out in the world, the ground uneven beneath my feet, wind blowing in my face.” There’s a wistfulness in his eyes, his voice, that speaks to her. “Air that’s not climate-controlled, smelling of grass. Just.” He makes a helpless gesture. “It would make everything feel more real somehow.”

Intellectually, Michael doesn’t fully understand what he’s trying to say, but beyond that, there is a sense of comprehension as she turns over his words in her head.

He’s unsure of himself, of his place, and that makes him cautious. She can relate to that.

From what she knows, he hasn’t been in a real, natural environment since before the war started. Hasn’t been able to choose his place, where he goes or where he wants to be, his life governed by and at the mercy of circumstances beyond his control.

So maybe that’s what he enjoys about this situation between them, and maybe it’s part of what she enjoys, too. Something certain, something good, in a time when everything else feels off-kilter. Trusting their connection enough not to rush, to let things unfold slowly, gradually. Teasing without taking; playing, but not against each other. Something they do for the joy of it, without pressure or agenda. A place to simply be in a reality otherwise determined by necessities and outside forces.

It might just be worth it, drawing this out a little longer, waiting for them to be fully in sync, for a moment when it will happen naturally; not because they’re impatient or think it should.

“Okay,” she says, sliding her fingers against his palm in a caress. “I want it to be real, too.”

\--

Lately it seems like they’re going to black alert every other day, and it takes a toll on the entire crew. Everyone’s on edge, always expecting to be called back to action, into another battle they are barely equipped to win.

The Klingons seem to consolidate their power among a few houses, flying targeted, multi-pronged attacks that even Discovery has trouble defending against. The fact that their main objective is to come to the aid of ships in immediate peril only adds to the constant strain in the atmosphere aboard.

Engineering has barely finished repairs after their latest mission when they’re called on to help the USS Ariane in what is supposed to be safe Federation space, close to a large colony with settlements on two moons.

These are civilians. They should have no part in this fight.

When Discovery materializes, the Klingon ships immediately fall into an attack pattern, almost like they’ve been expecting them.

Michael focuses on her task, calculating flight vectors to maximize cover for the Ariane and both moons while giving tactical maximum maneuverability, but the speed and level of organization of the Klingon’s formation is niggling at the back of her mind.

The element of surprise is one of the sharpest weapons in Discovery’s arsenal. The Federation is losing too many ships, too many lives, as it is. They can’t afford to forfeit one of the few advantages they have left.

They’ve been hit several times, and Michael is constantly adjusting for the loss of pressure in additional sections and power failures across three levels when another Klingon vessel drops its invisibility shield right beneath their warp chamber.

Rhys reinforces the warp core shields before Lorca has finished giving the order, but the Klingons open fire too fast, and Discovery sustains a partial hit. And then another and another.

One second, Michael is frantically typing, recalculating, integrating new data. The next, she is flung across her console, hitting her head on something hard and unyielding as she tumbles onto the ground. Numbly, she touches the point of impact on the side of her skull, and her fingers come away wet.

Before she can work out what that might mean, the world around her goes dark.

\--

When she wakes up, Michael’s stretched out on a biobed, Doctor Culber bending over her. A strange kind of pressure seems to slowly expand her cranium, making the very bones hurt.

“Oh good, you’re awake.” The doctor greets her with a smile, his hand moving a device she can’t identify along her temple.

She tries to move her head, but a searing pain at the base of her neck stops her.

“Yeah,” Culber says mildly, “I wouldn’t do that for the next couple of hours.”

“But I have to get back to the bridge.” Michael wants to shout the words, but they come out slow and slurred, her jaw barely moving.

“You really don’t,” he insists. When Michael attempts to move in spite of his advice, another spike of pain stabs through her head. “You missed the best part anyway.”

She can’t infer his meaning, and he pats her shoulder. “We saved the colony. And we got most of Ariane’s crew out before she self-destructed and took the Klingons with her.”

Instantly, Michael feels her muscles relax, but even just sinking back into the biobed brings a new surge of agony.

Culber gives her a kind look. “That’s as much of a happy ending as we get these days, don’t you think?” He takes a step back. “Now rest.”

Michael closes her eyes and once she does, she can’t imagine what it would be like to ever open them again.

She’s already drifting off when she hears a familiar voice from across the room, slowly penetrating the fog around her.

“She’s resting now,“ Doctor Culber responds to the voice. “I told you before she would fully recover.”

“Can I see her?” Ash sounds muted, tone brittle, but hearing him still makes Michael feel better, safer. “I just need to see her, make sure she’s okay.”

“See her, yes. Talk to her, absolutely not.”

“Of course not, Doc,” there’s a weary eagerness to Ash’s words. “Just a moment, I promise.”

When she feels his hands wrap around hers, Michael tries to open her eyes, but it’s useless. Her lids are too heavy and her head feels like it’s stuffed with gauze.

“I’m so glad you’ll be alright,” Ash murmurs, and she feels his breath across her knuckles, the soft warmth of his lips against her skin. “I don’t know what I would have done, Michael. I really don’t.”

His presence, his touch, his voice, everything about him soothes her, eases her mind, distracts her from the pain, and Michael’s almost sure she manages to squeeze his hand before she drifts off into deep, restorative sleep.

\--

A few days later, after Michael and all other injured members of the crew have fully recovered, medical throws a party in the mess hall with the explicit goal of boosting morale.

It’s not a bad idea, Michael has to admit.

They were lucky enough not to suffer any losses of life, but the ship sustained significant damage during the battle, and everyone’s been assigned additional shifts to get Discovery back in shape. The stress of the extra workload coupled with the constant strain of being at war, being on alert at all times, has taken a palpable toll on the crew, their nerves showing signs of fraying.

So when Tilly asks Michael to come out and have fun, she doesn’t even put up token resistance.

She missed most of the last party, and she’s eager to make up for lost time.

Ash has told her he would join them later, right after Lorca wraps up today’s security briefing, so Michael keeps company with Tilly and a few of the bridge crew members she has become friendly with.

She’s a bit self-conscious at first, but the relaxed atmosphere eventually gets her to open up. The Saurian brandy that keeps appearing in her hand also helps.

She dances with Tilly first, then with Rhys and Owosekun, surprising herself by how much she enjoys the evening. Every time she hears the door hiss over the music and laughter, Michael surreptitiously checks to see if it’s Ash. Which makes it a little annoying when he manages to sneak up on her.

“Having a good time?” he shouts into her ear from behind her back.

Michael turns around, feeling a broad and stupid smile on her face. “Ash,” she coos, taking both of his hands in hers. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

He tilts his head down at her, openly amused. “I can see that,” he says. “Can I get you some water?”

“No,” she says, her voice coming out louder than intended. “I want to dance with you.”

There’s something in his smile, mirth maybe, almost like he’s indulging her, but when he puts his hands on her waist and she slides her arms around his neck, she can’t really care about that.

After a few songs, he still hasn’t tried anything, hasn’t tried to kiss her.

“Will you ever kiss me?” she asks him outright, voice more petulant than she’d like.

“I thought I already did.” He looks down at her with a fond expression. “Just ask Stamets.”

She sighs, impatient, trying to pull him closer. “That was in another timeline.”

His one hand travels up from her waist and his fingers trace along the pulse in her throat. “I guess that’s true.” His palm comes to rest at the nape of her neck, warm against her skin, sending a faint thrill through her.

There’s an amused twist about his mouth. “How impatient are you?”

She tries not to get distracted by his eyes or his mouth or the way his question makes her feel. “Very, to be honest.”

His look turns pensive. “Is it because you want it so much or because you want to get it over with?”

The question surprises her. It’s a distinction she didn’t think to make. She presses her lips together, humming, as she considers it. “Both, I think.”

He smiles in that way he has, easy yet indeterminable. It makes her feel like nothing bad could ever come of it, but she still doesn’t know what to expect. Never before has it been like this with anyone. Usually, when Michael cannot gauge a situation or decipher a facial expression, it sets her on edge, puts her on alert. Not knowing means that she is failing, lacking, that she should know more, understand better. But not with him. With him, she feels safe. With him, not knowing seems exciting, tantalizing.

His thumb begins moving, rubbing slow circles against the side of her neck as his voice slides into a lower register. “Same here,” he says. “I think about it. A lot. Even when I’m alone.” His Adam’s apple moves with a swallow. “Especially when I’m alone.”

It feels like something big, an admission, and it makes her tingle. She’s more aware of everything: the hairs on her arms standing up, the sound of her blood in her own ears, the heat coming off of him where their bodies touch.

“Me, too.” She leans into him, tilting her head up, voice low with intimacy. “So?” she prompts, hopeful.

For a moment, he seems to melt towards her, but then he pulls himself together, straightening in her arms, but not moving away.

“Many people think that when times are dire, you should take your pleasure where you can get it.” He cocks his head and shakes it almost imperceptibly. “But I don’t want circumstances to dictate the way I live my life.”

The tone of his voice makes her think of what he must have endured on the Klingon ship, all the things she doesn’t know. It never really seems like these experiences affect him, but then again, how could they not.

“I like having room to breathe again, to decide and act in my own time.” He squeezes her waist. “Even if that sometimes means delaying to act.” His smiles is small but assured. “I enjoy waiting, sometimes. Especially for something worth waiting for.”

She can’t help but return his smile at that.  _ Something worth waiting for. _ She likes the way he says it, like there is no doubt in his mind. They  _ will  _ kiss eventually, and they  _ will _ like it, both of them. In a way, this is a unique opportunity. They already know the other wants it to happen, too. Thanks to Stamets, they even know it will go well. Maybe, in this time of uncertainty, it really is nice to have something to look forward to, letting anticipation built for something they both know will be good.

“You’ve convinced me,” she says, her fingertips stroking along his neck even as she lets go of it. “For now.”

When she walks towards the bar to get some water, Michael puts an extra bit of sway into her hips, and although she doesn’t turn around to look back, she is sure his eyes are following her across the room.

\--

The next day, when they’ve almost completed their run, Michael follows a sudden impulse and picks up the pace for the final stretch, sprinting towards the hull.

“First,” she gasps, smiling as she taps the hull window.

“I didn’t know this was a race,” he says, grinning as he wipes his brow with the hem of his shirt, baring his stomach.

Michael pulls her eyes away from the sliver of skin and shoots him a deliberately smug look. “Now you do.”

It becomes a thing after that, and every morning, they seem to start their sprint a little earlier, exhausting themselves more and more, panting loudly by the time they hurl themselves against the hull. Michael tells herself that it’s good exercise, that they’re just getting a bit of high-intensity training in towards the end.

The fact that they reach for the same spot and so the runner-up’s hand always winds up on top of the winner’s is just a bonus.

Today, Ash starts sprinting about one click out from their usual endpoint, much earlier than before, catching Michael off-guard. He seems to realize his miscalculation, slowing down just enough to let her catch up. It wounds her pride a little and bolsters her already considerable competitive streak. Now she has to win this.

Michael concentrates on her breathing, her footfalls, the perfect build and release of tension in her muscles, making good one pace and then another, upping the efficiency of her movements, hurtling her body forward, exploiting every little bit of momentum until her lungs hurt with the way she sucks in air and expels it fast.

When she stretches out her hand for her victory tap, she can sense him next to her, breathing loud and heavy, body too close, both of them neck-and-neck.

She throws herself forward, her hand reaching the hull window just just before his, the feeling of cold glass against her hot, sweaty palm shooting a deep jolt of satisfaction through her.  _ She won. _

Unable to interrupt her own momentum, Michael basically crashes into the window, rolling over half way and letting herself slide down onto the floor, the wet fabric at the back of her shirt dragging against glass and metal.

Ash is right next to her, gulping in air; his sounds, his smell, his physical presence providing a tantalizing distraction. Michael’s pulse pounds in her ears, her ribcage heaving with heavy breaths and a stinging yet pleasant ache starts spreading from her calves and quads and even her forearms into her whole body.

She looks over at Ash and finds herself fascinated by the way his chest expands, the way the front of his shirt is drenched in sweat, making the outline of his chest visible through the dark fabric.

His face is flushed with exertion, eyes shining and skin glistening with perspiration, beads of it gathering on his forehead, at his temples, above his lip.

Michael finds herself leaning in, her hand coming up to the side of his face, pushing damp strands of hair out of his eyes.

He wets his lips, eyes flashing dark as she moves in closer, her head tilting sideways. His mouth looks warm and soft. Michael knows it will taste of salt. They’re so close now she can feels his breath, still labored, against her lips, can smell his toothpaste and his body’s unique scent.

Just as she’s about to bridge the final inches between them, there’s a mischievous impulse tugging at her. Before she can think it over, Michael follows the instinct, positioning her hands on both sides of his hips- and pushes herself up into an energetic jump.

His eyes widen almost comically and for a moment, Ash looks dumbfounded.

Michael stretches out her hand to help him get to his feet, trying hard not to look self-satisfied.

He takes her hand and lets himself be pulled up, taking a step forward so he’s only an inch or two away from her body, towering inside her space.

“Some people prefer to wait, I hear,” she says with a sunny smile.

He takes a step back, shaking his head in obvious disbelief. And then he laughs, bright and sharp. He laughs and laughs, until his whole body is shaking with it. Soon she joins in, can’t really help herself, until they’re both standing in the corridor, hands on their thighs, wheezing and a little woozy, struggling for air. Giddily happy and in the moment.

\--

Saru calls Ash and Michael to the briefing room the next day, outlining the parameters of their latest assignment.

“The good news is that our sensors didn’t detect wildlife or any other kind of fauna on Pahvo,” Saru explains. “All life seems to be plant-based, which simplifies our mission.” His long fingers move through the air in a familiar gesture. “The only setback so far is the interference from the crystalline structure we want to utilize, which necessitates beaming down about thirty kilometers away from our target. Because of that, this will be a three-day mission.” 

Michael glances over at Ash. Three days on an alien planet together. She has to admit that the prospect excites her.

Saru throws some climate data and a few pictures taken by an exploratory drone onto the viewscreen. “On the other hand, the climate is almost identical to earth, so we won’t need EV suits and get to be outside in nature.” He points at the pictures. “The area we’re going to land in is dominated by geological formations and forest-like vegetation.” If the pictures are to be trusted, the leaves and lichen on Pahvo are tinged in beautiful shades of blue. “So we’ll have the sky above us and clean air to breathe.” Saru tilts his head and smiles. “I must admit, I’ve been cooped up on Starfleet vessels for so long, I do look forward to a change in scenery.”

“Solid ground beneath our feet, the sky wide above us,” Ash says, ostensibly to Saru, but his focus is on Michael alone, evoking past conversations, making anticipation spark low in her belly. “Now that really gives me something to look forward to.” He smiles, soft, eyes crinkling at the corners, and then winks at her, quick and playful.

Michael has trouble keeping her own smile in check. “Me, too,” she agrees.

“Let’s get to it then,” Saru says primly, getting up and straightening his uniform jacket.

Michael waits until he’s turned towards the door before touching Ash’s hand and giving his fingers a light squeeze.

Her smile feels good on her face, intimate and genuine, and she holds Ash’s gaze as she says, “I can hardly wait.”

**Author's Note:**

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